


Indiscretion

by lepusarcticus



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Graveyard Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 13:50:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10900653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lepusarcticus/pseuds/lepusarcticus
Summary: A certain youthful indiscretion atop Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s tombstone on a misty night in Windlesham.It’s not my fault. I had to write it to exorcise the demon.





	Indiscretion

Phoebe’s long umber hair swung in the night, slicing through the fog and sending vapors whirling under the dim flicker of the old sentinel streetlamps. A lit cigarette, as slim and long and white as her thigh, dangled between her fingers. He thought to himself that if any moment embodied her, this would be it - traipsing along an ancient, misty street in black leather over pale cashmere, utterly wicked, drunk on brandy and power. Phoebe was brilliant, beautiful, and completely fucking psychotic. He was twenty-two, and painfully, pathetically in love. 

“Come now, Mulder,” she oozed, her thick molasses voice muffled in her throat. He loathed her voice. No, he adored her voice. No, he hated it. At any rate, something about those swallowed, round, hiccupy London consonants drove him to the brink of madness. “We’ve got an appointment I’d like to keep.”   
  
“Pheebs,” he groaned, “What could possibly be more important than _this?_ ” He caught her around the waist and thumbed her erect, brassiere-less nipple through her sweater, but she whirled away, laughing, brushing the bright, burning cherry of her smoke over his arm in the process. He ground his teeth against the brief, searing heat, and glanced at his watch - “C’mon, it’s _2:45._ Let’s get back to the hotel.” He lowered his voice, trying to sound sexy. _“I want you.”_   
  
“I promise you, this is going to be worth it. I’ve got some witching hour _fun_ planned for us.” She smiled, her teeth sharky in the night, and casually tugged the V of her sweater to the side, freeing a wobbling, chestnut-nippled breast. She circled her areola and gave the nub one good pinch, then shrugged the fabric back in place with feline expertise. Hook, line, sinker. She tossed her cigarette into the gutter, and darted off, heels clacking on the cobble. _“Catch me if you caaa-aan -”_ She singsonged. Mulder, giving chase, decided that it would be quite nice to push her up against the nearest building wall and fuck her until she forgot her own name.   
  
Phoebe was faster than him. She was also cooler than him, smarter than him, and, he was beginning to suspect, more fucked up than him, which was a notable feat. He caught up to her near a low stone wall, panting, his lungs blistering against his ribs. “Where…”   
  
“All Saints Churchyard.” She breathed, and then melted into him and licked his neck. The wooden gate was locked, but low, and she tore away from him and vaulted over it with ease. She was tall, Phoebe, which was nice - their bodies lined up pretty much perfectly, and he took it as a sign. He followed her, heaving himself over the gate and into what he could see now was a graveyard.   
  
The mist hung low and heavy. She seemed to know exactly where they were going, flitting through the tombstones and throwing him naughty looks over her shoulder. It looked like a scene from a horror movie, Phoebe in the starlet’s role, a slutty, ghastly succubus hell-bent on draining his balls. Mulder caught up to her and fisted her hair, and she gasped in delighted pain as he yanked her back towards him for a sloppy kiss. God, if she could just let him win, _once,_ if she could just _behave -_  
  
She bit his lip, hard, drawing blood, and peeled away from him when he let her go in surprise. He should have known better. She was so good at making him bleed. 

“Almost there, darling, patience,” she purred, tonguing a smear of his blood from the corner of her mouth. She grasped his hand with her sharp kitten paw and pulled him through a labyrinth of overgrown, moss-ruined epithets, finally stopping before a large cross set in a half-moon anchorstone. There was a smoking pipe and a spray of rotting lilies leaning up against the grave.  
  
He looked at her expectantly, and she chuffed. “ _Read_ it, you daft thing.” The mist swirled around them as he squatted and squinted into the dark.   
  
STEEL TRUE  
BLADE STRAIGHT  
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE  
KNIGHT  
PATRIOT, PHYSICIAN & MAN OF LETTERS  
  
“Phoebe, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he laughed. After an entire semester of quoting _The Valley of Fear_ back and forth to one another, she’d brought him to Arthur Conan Doyle’s fucking grave. _That’s_ what this weekend trip had been about. God, he loved her so ardently that he was sure it wasn’t healthy.   
  
He stood up and gathered her into a sweet, slow kiss, and then she was pushing him backwards until the cold stone of the cross pressed between his shoulderblades. “Stay still,” she demanded, digging her nails into his jaw. She fluttered down to her knees, and before he could register what was happening, she’d worked open his belt and unearthed his half-hard cock.   
  
_“Pheebs-”_ he started to protest, but then she took him in her hot, evil little mouth, scraping him painfully with her teeth, and before he knew it, his hands were in her hair, and he was pushing into her throat with the fevered need of the desperately unhappy. She encouraged him, humming around his dick, darting her tongue out to graze his balls with each downstroke. God, she was good.   
  
He very badly needed to be inside of her. He tightened his grip on her hair and dragged her up by the scalp, shoving her face-first into the cross, ripping her expensive, prissy sweater up so she’d feel the cold stone on her tits. He flipped her skirt over her hips and pushed her tiny little panties to the side, stabbing two fingers roughly into her heat.   
  
_“Condom,”_ she panted, laughing. _“In my jacket pocket -”_  
  
Mulder rooted around in her coat one-handed, fucking her with his fingers, until he found the ravioli square of foil. He ripped it open with his teeth, removed his hands from her to swiftly smooth it on, and wondered if there was a standing world-record for condom application and whether he should write the folks at Guinness. And then Phoebe pushed her tight little ass back onto him, catching his rubbered cock between her asscheeks. He adjusted the angle and shoved his entire length into the velvet clamp of her body.  
  
She cried out, and then laughed again, deep in her throat. The sound was infuriating. She was always laughing at him. At what she could reduce him to. He began to pound into her in earnest, and even through the condom, she was the hottest, wettest thing he’d ever experienced. He drove into her viciously, hoping her breasts were grating on the stone, hoping he was hurting her just a little.  
  
He released her hipbone to wrap a hand around her neck, and yanked her head back to his shoulder, so his mouth was next to her ear. He bit into her neck and sucked, hoping to mark her. As if writing his name on her would keep her from fucking other people. Or other people from fucking her. She’d never promised him exclusivity, she’d pointed out several times, but he wanted it, needed it, expected it all the same.   
  
_“I love you,”_ he panted, pathetically, hating the sound of his own voice. _“Come back with me.”  
_  
She laughed again, and the humiliation of it burned in his gut, making his cock harder all the same. God, he was a sick fuck. _“I mean it. Come back to America with me. I need you,”_ he husked between thrusts.   
  
_“Oh, Fox -”_ she groaned, and he didn’t know if it was in pleasure or in derision.   
  
_“Don’t fucking call me that.”_ he growled into her ear, and began to fuck her harder than he’d ever fucked anyone. His ass and thighs screamed with the effort of pounding into her, and she struggled to stay upright, mewling in a very satisfying way.  
  
He could feel the pressure building in his balls, and decided that this time he didn’t care if she came or not. He fisted her hair again, forcing her flush to the cross, and she wrapped her arms around it to stay upright, her lipstick rubbing off on the stone. He was stepping on the flowers, his bootheel sending a mulchy smell to linger with the salt of Phoebe’s beautiful, vexatious snatch.   
  
He thrust into her madly, roaring in the mist, and came in several hot spurts that squelched between his dick and the latex of the condom. Bliss. Emptiness. La petite mort. 

When he reawakened, Phoebe was smiling that insane Cheshire smile as she smoothed her skirt back over her hips. “Well, someone’s feeling tender tonight,” she teased, and rage and embarrassment and desperation boiled in his belly. “Shall we head back?” Her lips were cold as she planted a kiss on his cheek, utterly unaffected, even though he’d scraped and bruised and bitten her, told her he loved her, begged her to move across the ocean to be with him.   
  
It was strange, really, how love tasted so very much like hatred. 


End file.
